5, 10, 90 Feet

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twainwas given to me at age twelve,opened every few yearsto remember Mami's friendship with Ariel,who also presented an invitationto sit in the dugout at Dodger Stadium—which she declined.

Coming from an islandfamous for its assembly-line productionof merengueros and peloteros,I realized she wanted morethan a wooden bat or a ball,more than ninety feet, a mound, or home plateto mark my existence—though I did not understand.

She did not want me adored for running bases,but revered and remembered for running wordson pages, expressing the importance of speaking the truth,sharing our stories, and using off-rhyme to upliftand metaphors to overthrowCIA-sponsored dictators.The library's doors and flickering lightsshielded me from the diamond's reality.

I still love baseball. Now, this is not for the ruptured wishes of a child,who at thirty-one ran the bases at the "K."

5, 10, 90 feet—this is where A-Rod stood—      Nike cleats, haughty grin,      sinister hands wiping uniform      while I waved our flag, knowing he      represented the possible winning run.

5, 10, 90 feet—this is where Giambi stood—      line-drive double, obscene smile,      as I spilled nacho cheese & jalapeños.

5, 10, 90 feet—this is where A-Rod stood—      after that damn double,      third-base coach refusing      to wave him in—believing      in the power of the Babe,      the pinstripe uniform,      the organization and God,      who obviously wanted a Royals defeat.

5, 10, 90 feet—short of breath and bothered,      this is where A-Rod stood—home,      where I go now, amazed and disheartened,      checking the schedule      for next week's games.

This is not for the wins or losses,not for the summer crown or the Mitchell Report letdown.Not for the players who took the game I loveand called it baseball.

Made it about performance-enhancing pills or injections,questionable stats due to rule violations: pine tar and spitballs.

This is not for my pitfall tigueritos,my shoeshine boys—a peseta for a clean,a stick and a rock for a dream.Shouldering the hopes of San Pedro de Macoris,Santo Domingo, along with every Quisqueyano

who prays to play their way out of povertyby swinging a bat or pitching a ball.This is not for them.

This is for my mother,who put a pen in my hand and pitched me poetry.Lit candles for San Miguel,believed in the Virgin Mary and Santeria,wore a red Kabala ribbon to prevent el mal de ojo,had her cards read frequentlyand somehow knewthat a corked bat, a spiked ball, and steroidswould never mark my accomplishmentswith an asterisk.